New Job

I don’t really enjoy what I’ve been doing for the past year. I buy media, which really isn’t that bad of a line of work—I mostly just call up radio stations and newspapers and arrange for our clients’ ads to run. But our clients aren’t the traditional, well-established types of clients who are advertising to improve their branding with the public, they’re get-rich-quick seminars and the only thing they care about is filling the seats at their seminars for the least amount of money possible. That being the case, some of my tasks have morphed from dignified negotiating to loathsome haggling.

“Your negotiations seem to have failed, ambassador.”
“The negotiations never took place.”

Negotiating is a respectable practice, it allows two parties to talk things out until common ground is found which will be mutually advantageous. The bizzaro counterpart to negotiating is haggling. I hate haggling. To me, haggling demonstrates both a lack of integrity within one’s self and a lack of respect for those he deals with, because a haggler isn’t concerned about establishing a symbiotic relationship or doing good business, he’s concerned only with price and getting a better deal than what he’s offering the person he’s haggling with. And at work, I’m often expected to haggle.

I can still remember my first haggling experience here. I was told to get advertising rates from the radio stations in Orlando, Florida. I called down, had a pleasant conversation with each of the stations, and reported the rates to my manager. His response, “That’s not good enough. Call them back and get the rates lower.” So I called them back, negotiated a bit, then reported a slightly lower cost: still not good enough…

“I misjudged you, Walter. I knew you would sell your mother for an Etruscan vase, but I didn’t think you’d sell your country and your soul to the slime of humanity.”

…So I called the station back, WORL, and told them they were full of it and there was no way I’d ever pay the rates they were expecting. They put up a fight but I just kept shoveling the sh*t and eventually they relented and surrendered a rate I was happy with. When I got off the phone, everyone in the surrounding cubicles who had overheard my conversation were cheering my name for a job well done, but I felt sick that I had just caused such a stink about something I didn’t even agree with ethically.

“So, Peter, you’ve become a pirate.”

Nothing makes a guy feel more forced into growing up than to be given an assignment to bully around other grown-ups. Since that first call to WORL, I’ve had the same situation several times. But in an effort to preserve some measure of innocence, I’ve discovered how I can both meet my managers expectations and keep from cankering my soul; however, I’m sure the end results don’t look quite as good on paper.

“JETSON!”

When I came back from going home for Christmas, my flight arrived in the middle of the day and all my friends were at work, so I didn’t have anyone to pick me up at the airport. Our office is pretty laid back and wasn’t super busy over the holidays, so I just called in and asked if anyone would be willing to come down to pick me up. My manager, Andrew, said he’d come get me saying, “I’ve got some things I need to talk to you about anyway.” I thought for sure he was going to tell me my results have been poor and that in the future I needed to be tougher on haggling the rates.

“Mr. Cratchit, I have had my fill of this!”
“And I have had my fill of YOU!”
“And therefore, I am about to raise your salary!”
“And I’m about to raise your right of the pavement! Huh?”
“Pardon me?”
“That’s right, Bob. Raise your salary and pay off your mortgage on this house.”
“Ha, ha, ha, won’t you come in?”

Well, I prepared for the worse, but instead of criticizing my work, he praised it. Turns out the creative department asked the company presidency if they could have me, and my manager is fighting to keep me in the media buying department. He said it was my decision whether I wanted to stay in buying or move to creative. He told me to take my time making up my mind, but made sure to remind me that my leaving would make his life much harder.

I’ve always wanted to work on the creative end of things. Now, don’t go thinking that I’m going to be the art director or anything; I’m mostly just going to be working with the editing equipment, switching out the market-specific information at the end of an ad. The pay will be the same, even though the work will be less demanding. But I’m told as the work load increases, we’ll hire more people to assist me and I’ll be made manager over the dubbing department.

That assignment won’t begin until a partnership pans out with another company, so in the mean time, I’m just continuing as a media buyer—which has my manager happy, but I’m eager to move on.

Its hard to stay focused once your ready to be done with something. It reminds me of times I was dating a girl and felt like ending things. I can’t think of any more awkward time in life than those moments you spend with her between the time you’ve made up your mind to end things and the time you actually tell her so. You’re still expected to play the same role you always have, but your heart just isn’t in it. You feel like you’re faking sincerity in everything you do and you worry that everyone around you can see right through it.

That’s how I’ve been feeling at work lately. I’m ready to retire from media buying. I don’t mind doing it, but its especially difficult to motivate myself to make a haggling call. But since there’s no guarantee that the deal with the other company will pan out, I might be stuck buying media for the rest of the year.

But, that wouldn’t be so bad. Sometimes I stress about whether this is the job that will propel me along the path to ranking high in a company or owning my own business. What worries me is the idea that since I’m not in love with this job, I don’t put all my heart and all my emotions into being the best at it—I mostly just do what it takes to get the job done, and not just done I guess, but done well.

And maybe that’s all that work is: it’s just doing what’s expected of you each time the expectation arises. Aspiring to lofty positions will get you nothing but a head full of frustrations and an enemies list of people you’ve crossed along your crusade to glory. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think we should be happy with mediocrity, but we needn’t be brats about clawing our way up and out of the bottom of the totem pole.

“Now as the ladder of life has been strung, you might thing the sweep’s on the bottommost rung. Tho’ I spend my time in the ashes and smoke in this whole wide world there’s no happier bloke.”

Some people would argue that complacency and concent will only cement your position on the “bottommost rung,” but I think there’s something to be said for being happy with where you’re at. It is evidence of a person’s flexibility and compatibility; these are telling times in which a man can prove his worth. There aren’t enough opportunities in this life to simply leap from one to the next to the next. And there’s an adjective to describe those who do that: non-commital.

“I find that if I just sit down and stay there… the solution presents itself.”

But on a similar note, there is another telling time for each of us: those moments when we ARE faced with an opportunity for change—a chance to face a new challenge and stretch our abilities into new areas. The more contently you work in your current position, the more opportunities for change will fall into your lap. These are the moments when ambition may prove itself. If you are afraid of change you will turn those opportunities down. But if you are looking to advance, you’ll weigh those opportunities and take advantage of the good ones when they come.

Is media buying retarding my advancement to financial independence? No. It may not be what I want to do with my life, but it is a means to an end. And when I feel like I’ve done my time here, and when an opportunity for growth arises, I’ll accept the chance and move closer to my goal. Until then, I’ll enjoy my job and try hard to enjoy the haggling too.

“You’re gonna love it in an instant”

“There’s only two things in this life I hate: heights, and jumping from them.”

The two things in life that I hate are being hungry and having (or worse, smelling other people’s) bad breath. There is one remedy to both and it’s called breakfast.

“What’s going on up there, Lieutenant?”
“Ah, they’re drinkin’ Drain-o.”

First of all: the breath. Have you ever noticed how bad your breath smells when you don’t eat breakfast? If you haven’t, or if you’re convinced that it doesn’t, just stop by an LDS chapel on fast Sunday. It doesn’t matter how hard you brush, or how many gallons of mouthwash you swish—you’re breath is gonna stink. Eating breakfast in the morning works just like pouring drain-o down a clogged sink: all the rotting impurities get stripped and washed down the pipes along with it, leaving your sink (and your mouth) fresh and sanitized.

“I think parfait must be the most delicious thing on the whole d@mn planet.”

Secondly: the hunger. Breakfast foods have always been my favorite form of nourishment. My Grandma Bryant tells me of a story when I was little, she and my grandpa took my sister and I out for dinner to Grandma’s favorite French bistro. Siri and I were in California visiting Grandma and Grandpa for a week, and at lunch that afternoon, Grandma had been lecturing me on the importance of eating one’s bread crust.

In hopes of avoiding a similar conflict at the restaurant, Grandma prepped us for the restaurant by explaining that this was a FRENCH restaurant and that some of the food there might be a little different because it was “French.” I’ve always been a very cultured young man, so when we got to the café and the French lady came to take our order, I didn’t even need to look at the menu. When she asked what I wanted I simply and confidently replied, “French toast.”

“Who be you to order me about and call ME girly?!”

When we roomed together, D$ would always give me a hard time about how long I took to get ready in the morning. He’s the type that will stay up a little longer at night, just to take the time to calculate exactly how long it will take him to travel to his first morning commitment, add one minute to it, then subtract the total amount from the time he needed to be there and set his alarm clock accordingly. He’d always tease me that I spent all my morning time in front of the mirror and recommended that I make better use of that time by sleeping in. (Don’t ask how he knew what I was doing at 7 am, being that he’d never wake up til noon).

“I took a shower washing every body part with actual soap, including all my major crevices, including in between my toes and in my belly button, which I never did before but sort of enjoyed. I washed my hair with adult formula shampoo, and used Cream-Wave for that ‘just-washed shine’. I can’t seem to find my toothbrush so I’ll pick one up when I go out today. Other than that, I’m in good shape.”

I’m not denying that I take a minute or two to shave and comb my hair each morning (“we all do!”), but the true reason I’d wake up early was to eat myself some breakfast. Some people have to have their hot cup of coffee to get their morning kick started, and my kick start is breakfast. It doesn’t need to be any breakfast food in particular: cereal, oatmeal, pastry—whatever.

“Noon? I do my killin' before breakfast—seven o'clock!”

I prefer to do a lot of things before breakfast and I’ve played around with several different wake-up routines trying to maximize my productivity and minimize my time spent. And after all the thought I’ve put into it, my conclusion is that Dustin was right all along—the morning hours are just too valuable to waist on superfluous activities (of coarse, my definition of superfluous activities is quite different than Glaige’s). So, I’ve decided to go with the Carnation instant breakfast drink.

“Eight o’clock. I do my killing after breakfast.”

So now, I can do everything I like to in the morning, then just before I leave for work, I mix 1/3 cup of powder with 1 cup of milk. Add a banana and oujalá: you’ve got yourself a quick and easy, delicious and nutritious breakfast that not only fills you up, but does so without having to preheat the oven or load the dishwasher.

“Gentlemen, we do not stop till nightfall.”
“What about breakfast?!”
“You've already had it.”
“We've had one, yes. What about second breakfast?”
“I don't think he knows about second breakfast, Pip.”

Even though it does fill me up, that filling only lasts until about 10 am, and I don’t take my lunch until 1 pm, so it doesn’t quite last me the whole morning through. But I don’t blame that on the instantaneousness of the breakfast—even a huge stack of grampa hotcakes doesn’t get me much past 10 am. What I really need is a second breakfast—something to tide me over til lunch. It wouldn’t be that hard; I could just keep some carnation mix in my desk and some milk in the break room fridge—but I choose not to. I figure it’s probably better to starve, after all, all I do is sit at my desk—so, it’s not like I’m burning my off breakfast—I’m just digesting it. Having more would only throw off my caloric balance.

“How long do you think that lasts? …You are not being careful, and you are missing it.”

Sure, slamming an instant breakfast may strip some of the joy of eating out of my morning routine, but those morning hours are so very precious. Besides, there are other hours of the day for enjoying food.

“Hey, is it too early for breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, good—suppertime!”

Institutionalizing myself

“You know, you’re off your nut about a mile and a half?!”

By saying “institutionalizing myself” I’m not admitting insanity (although by the end of this entry you might think otherwise); no, I’m talking about the LDS institute of religion. The LDS church offers a free religious class to both high-school and university aged students. In high school it was early in the morning and called “seminary”, and in college it is anytime of day (I go at night) and it’s called “institute”.

“Who goes there and whadda ya want?!”

I’ve never really been the institute type. All I’ve ever expected from an institute class, is a harmless hour per week spiritutal experience outside the formalities of wearing your Sunday best to church every Sabbath day. But in my limited experience with institute (I never attended in college because BYU offers religion classes instead of having an institute) I’ve found that institute classes are mostly just hotspots for the typical, weirdo mormons that I don’t enjoy being around.

“She was a, a medium, medium built sort of a girl with a, a medium face. She had a, a nice evening gown on with a belt in the back. She, she was build just like a girl-friend of mine who… a girl you don’t know, but uh… her name was Consuela Schlepkis. She used to play the pinball machine a lot down at the corner drug store. I remember one time she was high man three weeks in a row.”

At Institute, you’ll find all the usual characters from your average Sunday services. There’s the tall scrawny kid (none of his long sleeve shirts quite reach his wrists) and he fishes for opportunities to share his testimony of the gospel (because he’s convinced that’s what impresses the ladies); the heavyset girl who wears nothing but sweaters (even in the summertime) and demonstrates her love for the savior by singing WAY louder than anyone else during the Hymns (because SHE’S convinced that guys really go for a girl with a great singing voice); and the unattractive couple who don’t even pay attention to the lesson, they just sit and cuddle in the front row—it’s disgusts you to see them being so physical, but at the same time, it does your heart good to see that two people as awkward as them have found each other.

At any rate, I’ve been going to institute for the past month or two. I started going last semester, mostly for something to do with friends on Tuesday nights, but this semester, the teacher we had last time is still on Tuesday nights, and now no one can make it Tuesdays, so I decided tat to go alone, because the teacher is good and I don’t have anything else going on Tuesdays.

Some people go to institute to meet someone to date, some go for class credit, and some go just to hang out with friends. Last night I went by myself: I wasn’t going because of friends, I wasn’t going because of cute girls (trust me), and I wasn’t going because it was convenient (it’s like 30 minutes away). I just went because I wanted to learn and going for THAT reason made me feel quite intellectual.

“Maybe I’m off my hinges, but I believe ya.”

We’re studying the second half of the history of the church. As we were discussing the Joseph Smith story and it’s effect on the pioneers’ movement west and everything else, I was struck by how deeply I believe that Joseph Smith really did receive the visions and revelations that he said he did. I believe it so wholeheartedly that no amount of social incongruence will ever drive me away from this church, because even when I’m fed up with its members, I can’t deny that its doctrine is true.

Looking back on the thoughts and feelings I had last night, their polarity seems quite ironic. At the start of class I couldn’t help but feel that I really don’t fit in, nor want to fit in with my classmates, and by the end of the lesson, I felt such a conviction to the doctrines of the church that I knew that that’s where I belonged.

“My life is really… uh… complex.”

My devotion to this church seems almost illogical. I don’t really enjoy my interaction with the majority of it’s members, and even some of its practices tend to be an inconvenience to me (three hour Sunday services for example), but so much of my happiness to the perspective on life is provided to me through the church’s doctrines. And I owe so much of my character and integrity to lessons learned from the spiritual experiences I’ve had through studying the doctrines of the church and serving its members.

“You offend reason, sir… I should like to offend it with you!”

A logical man would conclude that if you don’t enjoy your experiences at church you have no reason to continue to attend, but my devotion has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with conviction. This church was established by a man who claims to have been visited and instructed by God the Father and Jesus Christ His son and further claims to continue to be governed, not by that same man, but by a man with that same authority, which authority has been passed down through the generations.

“Our whole strength rests on the validity of that vision. It either occurred or it did not occur. If id did not, then this work is a fraud. If it did, then it is the most important and wonderful work under the heavens.”

So why do I associate myself with a church that I don’t always enjoy and that makes such lofty claims? Because I sincerely, fully, and soberly believe that those claims are true. You might wonder, “How could it be right if you don’t enjoy it,” or, “how come you don’t enjoy it if you say you know its right?” Think of it this way, just because there are some negatives, that doesn’t mean that those negatives negate the positives—think of how much you can HATE your family (sisters especially) and still, you love them so much that you would do anything for them--its a lot like that.

Losing the Lost Boys

“Can we go, Peter?”
“Please, Peter, can we go?”
“If you wish it.”

At the end of every Peter Pan story ever told, Wendy and her brothers determine that they want to go home to their mother. Peter warns them that doing so will force them to stay away from Neverland forever, but the appeal is so great that even the Lost Boys, Peter’s gang, decide to leave with the Darlings and grow up.

The story usually ends in a happy way, Peter escorts Wendy and the boys back to London, gives a cheerful goodbye and returns to Neverland with Tink. But what happens when he gets back? Well, obviously he goes back to riding the wind’s back and to fighting Indians and pirates, but he does so alone for all his friends, Toodles, Nibbs, Curley, Slightly, the twins, they’ve all deserted him—to grow up.

“I can see what’s happening…”
“What?!”
“…and they don’t have a CLUE…”
“Who?!”
“…they’ll fall in love, and here’s the bottom line: our trio’s down to two.”
“Oh.”

Ty, Dustin and I have wondered for a long time, which of us will be the first to get married, and the more and more time he spends with Kiley, the more and more clear it becomes that Dustin will be the first of us to leave Neverland. And you’re probably thinking, “Well at least you still have Ty.” And as far as killing pirates and fighting Indians is concerned, its true. But Ty and I are very different in how we approach life and dating and in how our minds process the way life sometimes falls short of one’s expectations for it, but Dustin and I are very much the same in those aspects.

“One girl is worth more than twenty boys.”
“You really think so?”
“I live with boys.”

When a bro finds a girl that he has sincere feelings for, he loses all sense of broish propriety. Calls from her are now more important than Xbox with the guys, an evening with her is more valuable than a dozen BCS football games, and he doesn’t care if his bros are uneasy when he puts his arm around her, because his relationship with her has a potential unequaled, besides he knows that his relationship with the bros will endure even if he treats them like dirt—after all, they’re his bros.

I say all this as a statement of fact, not as an accusation of Dustin’s guilt. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying he’s NOT guilty of doing these things, I’m just saying that within the circles of brodom, a bro who choses a girl over his guys is not held accountable for his actions. When Ty was dating Lisa he acted the same way, and when I someday find someone worth dating, I’ll act that way too. And although bro’s complain about it, they understand that that’s just how it is and they accept it.

“Go on. Go back and grow up. But I’m warning you, once you’ve grown up you can never come back. NEVER!.”

That being the case, it often doesn’t seem like much of a loss when you see a twitterpated bro leaves the league of extraordinary gentlemen to join the ranks of the lawfully wedded, because as his courtship with her blossoms into marriage, his bro-age with you withers into acquaintanceship.

“Tinkerbell… I hereby banish you forever!”
“Oh, Peter, not forever.”
“Well… for a week then.”

And when you can feel your bro moving you to second fiddle, you feel like doing the same back to him. After all, isn’t reciprocation an important aspect in a healthy relationship? So the easiest and safest thing (emotionally speaking) would be to simply write off the friendship. And with many roommates, doing so is no big deal.

“You’ve left out one of the chief characters, ‘Samwise the Brave.’ I want to hear more about Sam. Frodo wouldn’t have got far without him.”

But every once in a while you make a friend with whom you’ve either gone through unforgettable times, or connected with on so many levels that you both know that the bond of your friendship cannot be undone by any measure of situational neglect, or circumstantial distancing.

“Don’t leave us, Peter, and don’t say good bye.”
“What’s good bye?”
“It’s leaving that’s what it is: forgetting about us all over again.”
“You’re all my lost boys, I’ll never forget you.”

I’ve seen many of my best friends get married, but being distanced from those friends came from such things as moving away to college or going on missions. I haven’t roomed with Dustin since april of last year, but to tell you the truth, we’ve become closer now that I live 31 miles away than we ever were living just one wall apart. So, until now, I’ve never had a best friendship end its peak with the best friend getting married, but I’m pretty sure that’s how my story with D$ will end. Nothing’s official yet, so I can’t use words like engaged, or ring, but I know that’s what’s about to happen and I’m not sure I’m ready for it.

“And in all my troubles past and all my troubles yet to come, I’ll never find a better friend.”

If I was ever stressing out about a girl I liked, or ever annoyed by a girl who liked me, or ever was struggling with a decision I was trying to make in my life, Dustin would not only listen, but he would have the perfect reply to either resolve my problem or at least ease my anxiety, because without fail, he had previously and often recently experienced the same situation, or the same concern.

And that’s what we do—we talk. Some friendships are based on enjoying similar activities, maybe you like to play ball together, or maybe you both enjoy John Wu movies, but Dustin and can be doing nothing, and still have a blast. He and I are so much the same, that we can counsel together and it’s like having a conversation with myself, only the self I’m talking to isn’t all stressed out so he can think clearly and give the kind of wise counsel a person would want for himself.

“Hey, do you wanna come with us?”
“You mean it?”
“No, not you… him.”
“Wait a second. Why him? I built this field. You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me… I wanna know what’s out there. I wanna see it.”
“But you’re not invited.”
“Not invited? What do you mean I’m not invited? That’s my corn out there! You guys are guests in my corn!”
“Ray…”
“No, wait. I have done everything I’ve been asked to do. I didn’t understand it, but I’ve done it, and I haven’t once asked ‘what’s in it for me?’!”
“What are you saying, Ray?”
“I’m saying, ‘What’s in it for me?”
“Is that why you did this? For you? I think you’d better stay here, Ray.”

I don’t know how Dustin got so lucky as to have his name called at this time—I mean, just a handful of months ago, “marriage” didn’t even seem real. And as happy as I am to see that my all-time bro, D$, has “wound up with the chick of his choice,” I can’t help but wish I “was invited” to go too. I don’t know why the good Lord chooses to bring certain blessings to certain people at certain times in their lives, but I know Dustin, and I know Kiley, and I know that for each other they are “the right [people], in the right place, at the right time” and I’m confident that my time will come, but I'm a little impatient about it happening.

“Boy, I sure wish it would happen to me.”
“Yeah, I do too.”

Don’t mistake me for one of those poor folk who do nothing but dream of true love and wallow in self pitty until they get what they want—I’m having too much fun being a kid to be like that, but looking on at Dustin and Kiley, seeing what they’ve found in each other, I see the kind of relationship I hope to have someday.

“Peter Pan had countless joys that other children could never know, but he was looking at the one joy from which he must be forever barred.”
“To live… would be an awfully big adventure.”

Maybe it’s true that “all children grow up, except one.” And perhaps that one is me. It wouldn’t surprise me. Sometimes I’m convinced that I’m just too wonderful to belong to anyone—it’s “part of the riddle of [my] being.” But I don’t want to make this all about me, because MY BRO IS GETTING MARRIED! I can’t tell you how shocked that statement makes me, nor how pleased.

“Ray. Ray. Listen to me, Ray. Listen to me. There IS something out there, Ray. And if I have the courage to go through with this, what a story it will make…”
“What, you’re gonna write about it?”
“You bet I’ll write about it.”
“You’re gonna write about it.”
“That’s what I do.”
“Good. Good… I want a full description!”

Dustin was the one who started me on this blog-writing business. He had been doing it for months before he convinced me to start one of my own. And, dude, if you’re reading this, I just want to say congratulations. You picked a good one. I can’t believe it—you’re about to enter a world that, until now, we had figured to be fictitious. I can’t come with you, so I want you to report back to me, and I want you to say that it’s worth enduring whatever it takes to get there.

And, bro, I know that being serious with a girl doesn't mean you're engaged, and being engaged doesn't mean you're married, and being married doens't mean we'll no longer be friends, but it does mean a casting change for the roles we play in each others lives, so I just want to say thanks for giving me an oscar-worthy performance and good luck on your next film.

Unintentional Neglect

“I’ve got these ideas, man, BURNING through my skull!”

Okay, I just want to say that even though I haven’t posted anything in almost a month, it’s not because I don’t have things on my mind, or strange happenings going on. I do, and I’ve been writing bits of them here and there.

“How was work today, honey?”
“Eh, work’s work.”

It’s just that I don’t have an internet connection at home, so I usually do all my writing and posting at work, and work (despite a slowness over the past three months that would make Pope John Paul II seem as speedy as Carl Lewis) has been very busy since early December.

“And what’s in it for you, buster?”
“45 minutes, all to myself.”

So, for today at least, I’ve finally got some free time to spend in front of my computer, so I hope to start hammering out some of these half-finished blogs that I’ve written over the past five weeks. There’s a chance that some of them might be a little past their expiration date (considering the timeliness of the events that have lead up to these ideas), but I assure you that the ideas are still fresh, and none have curdled.

“First, let me assure you that I am alive and well. I have been living happily these past eight months in the year 1885…[and] I’ve gotten quite adept at shoeing horses and fixing wagons.”

And in case you’re wondering, I’ve spent these past few weeks celebrating the holidays with family, watching football with friends, and becoming better acquainted with my Xbox. All, in all, despite the relatively few words which have been written about it (less infact than what has been written on the childhood of Christ), it has been a remarkable and relaxing past few weeks.